


Post Factum

by Essie_Cat



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Fowler POV, Gen, Good Dog Sumo (Detroit: Become Human), Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: When Anderson quits the force, Fowler’s sure he’ll come round in a couple days.When it turns out Hank’s never coming back, Fowler smokes too much, makes some difficult phone calls, and tries to find a home for Hank’s dog.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Jeffrey Fowler, Jeffrey Fowler & Sumo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	Post Factum

**Author's Note:**

> CW: As you’ve hopefully seen from the tags and warnings, Hank’s suicide is a major theme in this. There’s nothing graphic, and it’s mostly talking around Hank’s death rather than discussing it directly, but here’s another warning just in case. With that said, read on if you’d like a fic about Fowler being sad but really trying his best, plus Sumo being a good dog :)

‘You’re off the case. The FBI is taking over.’

Fowler had expected resistance. He knew Hank would be pissed. It was a matter of pride for him. Hell, Fowler would’ve felt the same in his shoes. No one wanted to pour their blood, sweat and piss into a case only to have those FBI assholes swoop in at the last minute and take all the credit.

‘For God’s sake, Jeffrey, can’t you back me up this one time?’

Fowler ground his teeth and waited out Hank’s annoyance as patiently as he could. He’d stuck his neck out for Hank plenty of times and he didn’t need to defend himself over this. It was hardly Fowler’s fault that deviants were rising up and the whole country was going to hell. He didn’t need this shit today.

But then there was the gun and the badge falling with a clunk on his desk.

‘I'm tired of going through the motions,’ Hank said. ‘There's nothing keeping me here. Not this case. Not my partner.’ 

Fowler glanced at the Connor android who, for once, kept his mouth shut. 

Hank looked defeated. ‘I don't belong here anymore.’ 

Fowler had a million fucking things to do and the FBI on his ass and a headache that was splitting his skull, and now Hank had decided to throw this at him.

Hank stormed out of the office, and the android followed silently. Fowler took a swig of coffee. Give Hank some time to cool off and he’d be back like nothing had happened. 

*

On the third day of Hank not returning his calls, Fowler decided to drop by after work. He rang the bell. He knocked on the front door. He hammered on a couple windows and shouted Hank’s name. All the blinds were closed. 

Fowler had been in this game long enough to know when something wasn’t right.

*

Even as his stomach heaved and he wanted to scream at everyone in sight, Fowler was damned proud of his team. The guys were taking photos of the scene, making notes, collecting evidence, doing their jobs like fucking professionals. Hank would’ve liked that, he thought. The prick always had a sick sense of humour.

He knew the past few years had been rough for Hank. He knew about Hank’s drinking – all of them did – hell, anyone who’d ever walked past Hank on the street knew about his damned drinking. But he’d never imagined this. The kitchen littered in food and trash, dishes piled up in the sink, every surface wearing a thin sheet of grime, a persistent musty scent in the air that suggested mold. And now Hank’s colleagues pouring over everything like voyeurs, prodding at his shell of a life. 

‘His fucking dog,’ someone said quietly. ‘It’s been here all on its own.’

There was a huge mass of fur curled up in the corner of the living room, giving the occasional low whine, confused by the sudden commotion and the deluge of strangers in its house. Collins was knelt down next to it, scratching its head and murmuring gently.

‘I’m outta here,’ Fowler found himself saying to whoever was closest. ‘Call if you need me.’

He suspected he would rip the head off the first person who dared to fucking call him.

When he got home, he knew Emily was in already – her shoes were on the rack and her coat on the stand. ‘Em?’ he tried, hanging his coat up next to hers and slipping off his shoes. No answer.

He hovered for a moment at the bottom of the staircase, peering up at the light seeping out from the crack under the door of her study. She often worked late, grading papers and writing lesson plans and all the rest of it. He considered going up there and asking her to hold him, asking her to listen as he vented about what a God-awful day it had been. His right foot edged up onto the first step, then it lowered to reunite with his left.

He went to the kitchen, taking some leftover pasta from the fridge and watching it spin in the microwave until the clock ticked down. He switched on the news. All miserable shit these days. They were still showing clips of the deviant leader’s body – riddled with bullet holes, mismatched eyes wide open – at every opportunity they could. Fowler knew it was a machine, just as the Connor android had been … but Christ, an image like that was enough to turn anyone’s stomach.

*

He got to work early the next morning and sat at Hank’s desk. It was covered in all of Hank’s crap. A box of matches, a baseball cap, newspaper clippings from what felt like a thousand years ago. There was even a dead plant looking pitiful. 

He asked Chen about the plant when she arrived. She had some sort of cactus on her desk, so he thought she might know. ‘Can we save it?’ he asked earnestly. ‘Or should we just throw it in the trash?’ 

Chen looked bewildered, but she said, ‘Sure, Captain. I’ll see what I can do.’ She placed it on her desk next to the cactus. For the rest of the day, he caught her snatching glances at him with something like concern.

When the office had filled up enough that he couldn’t put it off any longer, he called everyone over, standing at the top of the steps, clutching the railing, looming down over them all like a priest with a miserable congregation. 

‘For those of you who don’t know…’ he began, as if every officer in Detroit didn’t know by now. The speech he’d prepared sounded more hollow and less sincere than it had in his head. Everyone gazed up at him dully without saying anything. He almost hoped that Reed would say something fucked up so he’d have the opportunity to rip him a new one. But they all listened in respectful silence and it was awful. In the corner of his eye, he could see Hank’s desk staring back at him. 

When he retreated into his office, Hank’s file was waiting for him, fanned out on the desk. He’d been a good fucking cop. Disciplinary folder the size of a goddamn novel, but still one of the best. Even these past few years, he’d always gotten results, no matter how late he dragged himself into work or how bloodshot his eyes were.

_For God’s sake, Jeffrey, can’t you back me up this one time?_

He’d not asked questions because it hadn’t seemed like it was any of his business. He’d looked past it because Hank still did a good fucking job and only caused an average amount of trouble. _Fuck, Hank. I’m sorry._

He slammed Hank’s file shut, grabbed the packet of cigarettes from the drawer of his desk and stormed outside. Emily would be furious if she knew, but fuck it, one wouldn’t hurt. He nodded to Reed, a few feet away, taking a long drag on a cigarette. Reed offered his lighter and Fowler took it. He looked at Reed’s fingernails, stained yellow, and thought vaguely about why he’d quit in the first place. He lit up, waiting for the wave of calm to hit him, the gentle reward for giving in. 

Through the window, his eyes fixed on the dead plant on Chen’s desk.

‘What happened to the dog?’ he found himself asking.

Reed looked at him like he was mad. ‘Dog?’

‘Anderson’s dog. Where is it?’

‘Like it fucking matters,’ Reed muttered.

Fowler glared at him and Reed looked away. After a moment, he said, ‘Collins took it. Said he’ll hold onto it for now. He knows about dogs. He’s got one.’

Fowler took one last drag then stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Thanks for the light,’ he said. ‘Now go do some fucking work.’ 

*

The contact numbers they had for Hank must be five years out of date, probably more. He cursed Hank for not thinking to update them. Then he realised there probably wasn’t anyone else Hank could’ve listed, and he felt like shit, and he picked up the phone.

Hank’s ex-partner, his kid’s mother, didn’t answer. He left a message. ‘Hello, this is Captain Jeffrey Fowler from the Detroit Police Department, leaving a message for Ms. Lorna Mayhew…’

Hank’s sister did pick up. Fowler felt his insides disintegrating. ‘Hello, this is Captain Jeffrey Fowler from the Detroit Police Department. Am I speaking to Ms. Maggie Anderson?’

He was. He recited his prepared speech. Maggie Anderson barely said anything to him for the duration of the call. Her manner was unwaveringly civil, firmly unemotional in a way that made Fowler’s blood boil, though he knew he was being unfair. She was a fair bit younger than Hank, lived somewhere in Europe. Fowler didn’t recall Hank ever mentioning her. 

As she thanked him for the call, he thought vaguely that she didn’t sound anything like Hank, melodic and softly spoken, without any of his gravelly baritone – but then, Jesus Christ, why would she?

He was in a foul mood after the call. He drank some coffee, which made him feel sick. He thought about the cigarettes in the desk drawer. Collins came in to tentatively ask him about something, waving some folder under his nose, and Fowler tried to pretend like he gave a shit.

‘I hear you’re looking after Anderson’s dog,’ he said. ‘Thanks for that, Ben.’

‘No problem. Seemed like the right thing to do.’ Collins looked a little sheepish. ‘Won’t be able to keep him too long, though. Archie doesn’t get on with other dogs.’

Fowler remembered something about Collins taking time off work to enter Archie the beagle into contests and boring them all with stories about prizes he’d won. _Jesus Christ. Gotta be better ways to get your kicks._

‘I’ll ask around,’ Collins was saying. ‘I’m sure someone’ll have him.’

‘Yeah,’ Fowler said. He didn’t want to think how many dogs they’d shipped off to the pound over the years, mangy things on the streets and beloved family pets alike who’d all been left behind in one way or another. ‘Lemme know when someone does, all right?’ 

He dismissed Collins, wished his office had something more protective than that damned glass wall, and waited glumly for Lorna Mayhew to call him back.

*

Fowler smoked so much that afternoon that he’d need to buy a second last-ever pack of cigarettes to keep in his desk. The smell would be all over him, hanging on his breath, working its way into his clothes and settling there. Emily would be out tonight; she had her book group, or spin class, or one of them. If he timed it right, he could get home and changed without her being any the wiser.

There was still a cigarette between his teeth when Hank’s ex returned his call. Fowler stumbled over the words in a way he hadn’t done with the sister. As he spoke, he pictured a plump, dark-haired woman from three years before, dressed in black, accepting his condolences blankly, and ugly grief exploding from her when she realised he was there with Hank. Today, she was polite enough to him over the phone. He doubted she remembered anything about him from that horrible day.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I … I haven’t spoken to Henry in three years. Not since…’

Fowler remembered the church strewn with flowers. He remembered Hank sitting there with his face messed up and his arm in a cast. Fowler had driven him home afterwards and he’d sobbed and sobbed in the car. He remembered Hank and Lorna sitting on opposite sides of the church, barely able to look at each other.

‘How did he die?’ Lorna asked.

Fowler told her.

‘Fuck,’ she whispered.

There was a long silence on the line. Fowler knew he had to speak, knew he was being unprofessional, but his mouth felt dry, his tongue like lead. _She knows it was my fault,_ Hank had said to him once, several drinks deep. _I don’t fucking blame her. She_ should _hate me._

Lorna Mayhew cleared her throat and said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’ She hung up. 

Fowler went to Hank’s desk again, looked at the matches, the cap, the remnants of Hank’s day-to-day. He loaded everything into a cardboard box, cradling each item in his large hands as though it meant something. He took the box to his office and placed it in a corner, where it would sit for the next six months like a sad little shrine, untouched.

*

As he stood on Collins’ porch, the thought hit him that it wasn’t too late to change his mind. He could call Collins from the car and apologise. It wasn’t his fucking responsibility. He could – 

‘Captain Fowler!’ a woman said warmly as the door opened. ‘Ben said we should expect you. Come on in.’

The word for the hallway he stepped into was _homey_ , with too many ornaments on every surface and photo frames lining every wall. Emily would have a fit at the lack of an orderly colour scheme, not to mention the potential for dust. 

‘Ben!’ Mrs Collins called into the house, beaming at Fowler. He thought her name might be Marilyn – he knew he’d met her before, Collins had definitely brought her along to a few work things over the years – but he didn’t want to chance it. 

‘Let me have your coat,’ Mrs Collins said warmly, helping him out of it even as he promised he wouldn’t be imposing on them long. ‘Can I get you anything to drink? We’ve got fresh coffee.’

Collins appeared in one of the doorways. Archie the beagle sniffed at Fowler’s shoes and the Collinses apologised in unison, Mrs Collins petting the dog indulgently before leading him away.

‘Captain,’ Collins grinned, looking a bit too pleased to see him, as though he hadn’t been sure Fowler would show up. ‘You doin’ all right?’ he asked carefully, just the right side of conversational.

‘Yeah, Ben. Fine. How ‘bout you?’

‘Rough few days,’ Collins admitted. ‘But we’ll all get through it, Cap.’

Despite everything, Fowler found himself smiling. Damned Collins. Too nice for his own good. Guys like him and Hank had always sneered at guys like Collins, just a bit, back in the day. Not a drop of ambition in him. A bit too fucking soft, like a cheery cop on a kids’ TV show who’d tell you to play nice and eat your vegetables and wait for the walk signal before crossing the road. But Collins had a nice wife and a daughter and grandkids and a prize-winning fucking beagle, so who was laughing now?

‘He’s in here,’ Collins said, and Fowler followed him into the kitchen, which was covered in burnished orange tiles, with loud yellow drapes at the window.

‘C’mon, boy,’ Collins said encouragingly to the creature curled up in the corner of the room. The dog stirred, slapping its tail unenthusiastically against the floor, half flopped across a dog bed that was slightly too small for it. ‘This is Captain Fowler.’

The thing was fucking _enormous_. He didn’t remember it being that huge. What had Hank been thinking, getting a dog like that? It must have taken up half his kitchen.

‘We sure it’s not a bear?’ Fowler said.

‘He’s a St Bernard,’ Collins said helpfully. ‘His name’s Sumo.’

‘Hello,’ Fowler said to Sumo. The dog gazed up at him with doleful eyes. He suspected he was doing this wrong. Collins was probably judging him.

‘You sure about this, Captain?’ Collins asked. 

‘Course,’ Fowler said with a confidence he didn’t really feel. ‘Let’s get him in the car.’

*

Sumo was flopped across the back seats, getting hair all over Fowler’s recently shampooed upholstery. They should have taken a cab. Fowler had rolled one of the windows down for some fresh air, and Sumo’s fur rippled in the breeze.

‘We’ll be home soon,’ Fowler said to the dog, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s not far. We’ll get you, ah, settled in. You’ll meet Emily. She likes dogs. You’re not really what she’s expecting, mind. Bit bigger, bit louder.’

Sumo gave a low _boof_. 

‘But it’ll be fine. You’ll like her when you get to know her. She’ll be strict, though – fuck, I will too, so don’t go getting any ideas. I bet Hank spoiled you rotten, eh?’

His throat seemed to constrict for a moment. He coughed and said more forcefully, ‘Well, my house, my rules. No scratching the floors. No sitting on the furniture. No slobbering. No shedding. Christ, you’ve got a lot of fur. How often do you need grooming? All right, minimal shedding, to the best of your ability. Got it?’ 

Sumo barked.

‘Good. Glad that’s settled.’ 

He looked at the dog in the mirror again, at his mournful eyes and the huge tongue lolling from his mouth. He imagined Sumo giddy with excitement when Hank threw open the door at the end of the day, Hank taking him for walks and filling up his food bowl and stroking his fur on the couch on those long evenings between work and unconsciousness. 

Fowler forced a smile, as if it mattered to Sumo either way, and tried to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes. _Jesus Christ, Hank. Look what you’ve got me doing. Bet you’re laughing your ass off up there._

‘Good boy,’ he said thickly. ‘I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.’


End file.
